A Pome a Day for a Year

“S’wintery out there,”
her face bundled in thick scarf
cheeks rosy and peeking up over
tie dyed wool, like dual sunrises.
Wisps of steam flows gently from the top
of an exposed cup, foam bubbles popping
gently, soft hums of jazz tinkle and pluck
above her head
and humanity murmurs alongside.

“The bus was warm,”
his head adorned with blue hat,
covering brittle ears and crunchy hair,
hands rubbing, gyrating circles of flesh on flesh
stoking warmth in extremities
to match the fire in his heart,
that turns and expands
with every look her way.

“Yeah, I do like December though,”
she looks toward spoon and sugar,
a bashful motion, her insides flipping
in tandem with her spoon,
emotions and sweetener
pouring equals amounts.

A joint nodding, a shared smile,
creases in eyes form as all four orbs
lock for the briefest of seconds,
and they share their menu.